The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (ebook reader 8 inch .txt) 📕

“There's about a quart of varnish in the wood already,” observed Johnson, as I stared and pondered. “Suppose we take it down and weigh it?”

Inside of a minute we had that piece of trim down from its place. First, I carefully examined the timber framework behind, expecting to see traces of the varnish where, presumably, it had seeped through. There was no sign. Then I inspected the reverse side of the finish, just behind the peculiar spot. I thought I might see a region of wide open pores in the grain of the pine. But the back looked exactly the same as the front, with no difference in the grain at any place.

Placing the finish right side up, I proceeded to daub the spot some more. There was no change in the results. At last I took the can, and without stopping, poured a quart and a half of the fluid into that paradoxical little area.

“Well I'll be darned!”—very loudly from Johnson. But when I looked up I saw his face was white, and his lips shaking.

His nerves were all a-jangle. To give his mind a rest, I sent him for a hatchet. When he came back his face had regained its colour. I directed him to hold the pine upright, while I, with a single stroke, sank the tool into the end of the wood.

It split part way. A jerk, and the wood fell in two halves.

“Well?” from Johnson, blankly.

“Perfectly normal wood, apparently.” I had to admit that it was impossible to distinguish the material which constituted the peculiar spot from that which surrounded it.

I sent Johnson after more varnish. Also, I secured several other fluids, including water, milk, ink, and machine oil. And when the painter returned we proceeded with a very thorough test indeed.

Presently it became clear that we were dealing with a phenomenon of the Blind Spot. All told, we poured about nine pints of liquid into an area of about twenty square inches; all on the outer surface, for the split side would absorb nothing. And to all appearances we might have continued to pour indefinitely.

Ten minutes later I went down into the basement to dispose of some rubbish. (Charlotte didn't know of this defection in our housekeeping.) It was bright sunlight outside. Thanks to the basement windows, I needed no artificial luminant. And when my gaze rested upon the ground directly under the parlour, I saw something there that I most certainly had never noticed before.

The fact is, the basement at 288 Chatterton Place never did possess anything worthy of special notice. Except for the partition which Harry Wendel and Jerome, the detective, were the first in years to penetrate—except for that secret doorway, there was nothing down there to attract attention. To be sure, there was a quantity of up-turned earth, the result of Jerome's vigorous efforts to see whether or not there was any connection between the Blind Spot phenomena which he had witnessed and the cellar. He had secured nothing but an appetite for all his digging.

However, it was still too dark for me to identify what I saw at once. I stood for a few moments, accustoming my eyes to the light. Except that the thing gleamed oddly like a piece of glass, and that it possessed a nearly circular outline about two feet across, I couldn't tell much about it.

Then I stooped and examined it closely. At once I became conscious of a smell which, somehow, I had hitherto not noticed. Small wonder; it was as indescribable a smell as one could imagine. It seemed to be a combination of several that are not generally combined.

Next instant it flashed upon me that the predominating odour was a familiar one. I had been smelling it, in fact, all the morning.

But this did not prevent me from feeling very queer, indeed, as I realised what lay before me. A curious chill passed around my shoulders, and I scarcely breathed.

At my feet lay a pool, composed of all the various liquids that had been poured, upstairs, into that baffling spot in the wood.